


nowhere / bloodlines

by viscrael



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Depersonalization, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Post canon, Reunion, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you paint storms so much?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	nowhere / bloodlines

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be approx. 800 words and then my hands were like lol no
> 
> anyway have shion angst and post-series headcanons

When Inukashi comes by to see him, he’s staring at a wall. The cracks in the fixture are thin and jagged. He tries to reach out to run his hands along them and finds he’s not quite close enough to touch.

He hears Inukashi enter from the other room, the sound of the door smacking against the wall behind it unceremoniously precedes their hissed “shit!” at the noise. A moment later, they’re standing at his doorway, what he assumes to be laundry held in a large trash bag.

“Hey,” they greet, because they’ve been gentler with him lately, and he can’t blame them. The cracks are staring at him now, and he feels the ceiling looming over him when he turns to look at the other.

“It’s laundry day,” he realizes.

They nod. “Yeah.” A beat of silence. The bag rustles as they shift. “Have you been asleep all day?”

“No.” He gets up, slow to swing his legs over the side of the couch and pull himself into a standing position. His legs wobble; his foot fell asleep, and he shakes it to get the blood flowing again. “I got up earlier, but I’ve not been doing much.”

“…Oh.”

Inukashi looks away like they’re uncomfortable, even though the two have this conversation almost every day. How are you, did you sleep, how much did you sleep, have you eaten today, what was your latest dream about? Did you wake up crying again? Did you scream his name and wish you’d drowned?

Shion doesn’t think he wishes he’d drowned, but he’s afraid of the other answers.

“I’ll go get my clothes,” he finally says, and his feet are cold against the floor as he leaves to his room. He owns a queen-sized bed, but only one person sleeps there now. He sprawls out some nights, taking up the whole space, and presses his face into the second pillow he owns. The smell is long gone, but he goes through the motions anyway.

His dirty laundry is strewn everywhere. He’s normally an organized person, but there’s not been much need for organization the past couple of weeks, and so his living space has become something akin to a wreck. Perched on one of his chairs (wood, old, rotted) is a jacket Inukashi had left the other day. He picks it up, stares at it for a moment.

The past couple of weeks Inukashi has been coming over more. Over the paste two years—almost three—the pair had grown closer, but Inukashi had a sudden burst of maternal worry, and now they don’t stop checking up on him even after he says he’s fine.

A part of him likes it—the attention, that is. He likes being cared for, and he likes knowing that someone loves him. But it gets frustrating, having to go through the motions of How are you, Did you sleep, How much did you sleep, Have you eaten today, What was your last dream about? He doesn’t want to think about himself at all. Even just having to think enough to answer those few questions is tiring.

Inukashi sleeps over sometimes. Shion had invited them to live with him when the rebuilding of the city started, but they had declined; he assumed it had something to do with pride. But despite their refusal to that invitation, they don’t seem to have any issue with sharing the queen-sized bed. That’s okay with Shion. It’s made for two people, and body heat is comforting.

They’re over often, often enough to leave their jacket on his chair by the window. He finds himself smiling at it, and the tile is cold when he leaves the room again.

 

\--

 

Shion can’t babysit for Inukashi much, because he’s even busier than they are, but his mother offers sometimes, and he hears stories through her. Little Shionn is just like his namesake, she’s told him before. He tries to smile at that, but his muscles must forget to work, because when he passes a mirror, he’s still frowning.

Most things have forgotten how to work at this point, though. He wonders if he’s brain dead some days. Wishes he were brain dead, some days. It’s a horrible way to think, but he’s been repressing this little dead feeling in the back of his brain for years now, and now it rears an ugly head and smiles.

Its teeth are sharp.

The old mantra of _break it. destroy it. destroy what? everything. everything?_ bothers him sometimes, the only difference being the unprecedented desire for destruction is no longer unprecedented. He still feels the gun in his hands some nights, still sees the little cherry blossoms bloom, still hears what must be crying, what must be despair.

_Shion, shion, you let it change you._

No, no, he didn’t change. Shion has always had a thirst for ruin, always had a need to detonate. It was just more obvious that day, because before that, his desire was clouded, shrouded, covered in rationality and executive (dys)function ninety nine percent of the time. But in that moment, when it was cold and steel and iron, his desire was raw for the first time ever. And he pulled the trigger.

It’s been raw ever since.

He thinks about the trigger a lot. Thinks about the guilt that welded in his chest not even a moment later, thinks about the guilt that is still present. He wants destruction, and he wants damage, and he wants ruin, but others are too precious to ruin, and so he aims for himself. Points the gun this way, turns it around.

But he hadn’t pulled, that day. Nezumi stopped him. Sometimes he wonders if he really _did_ die that day, maybe he’s been dead ever since. That would probably explain a lot.

 

\--

 

He started painting. It was mostly his mother’s idea, because she said that he could try it as an outlet. He’d written before—letters, mostly, and that was therapeutic, but once he’d picked up a brush, it became obvious that it cleared his head in more ways than words would.

Inukashi calls him a romantic, mostly teasing, because all of his paintings are landscapes, the sunrise and the field (burned) behind his mother’s house. They’re probably right, but he can’t find it in himself to be offended by the name. He dreams things and paints them, wakes up with blue and green and black on his hands from falling asleep in the middle of a project.

His art isn’t even all that good, because things like creativity weren’t exactly the most encouraged in No.6, but he doesn’t do it to get better, and he doesn’t do it to make something nice. He does it to clear his head, of the fog that had been settling for three years now, of the cotton that got stuffed in his ears and kept him from interacting. Sometimes his eyes would wander so much that he couldn’t see, and sometimes he’d think so much he’d float away, but a brush in hand almost always grounded him. Inukashi starts carrying brushes and small bottles of paint around with them when they realize that it’s the quickest way to bring him back to earth.

“You scare me when you do that,” they tell him one day.

He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “Do what?”

“That…” He knows they’re frowning, even without looking at them. “That _thing_ , ya know…when you get spacy and quiet and start actin’ different and talking like you don’t know me. It’s scary.”

The grip on his brush tightens. He suddenly feels guilty for never having explained it in full to them, the way he loses track of reality sometimes, the way he detaches from himself and the people around him until something brings him back down. If Nezumi were here, he’d tell him he’s just being an airhead. But it’s more than that.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he finally says. “I’m sorry.”

“’S fine,” they mumble, but they still sound worried, and he finally sets his brush down and turns to look at them. Their eyes are trained on the floor, dark arms at their side with little fists clenched tight in worry.

Sometimes he forgets how young they are, how small, because they act so much older. But they can’t be any more than sixteen, and it shows in moments like this.

 

\--

 

“Why do you paint storms so much?”

Shion pushes his glasses up on his nose. He only wears them at home, and he’s still in his pajamas. “I like them.”

Inukashi snorts where they’re sitting on his bed. “You like a lot of stuff. That don’t mean anythin’.”

He smiles a little. “You’ve got a point there, I guess.”

“Now that I think ‘bout it,” they continue, when he doesn’t offer any more of a response, “you sorta have a thing for storms, don’t you? You always seem, like…at your best when it’s rainin’. Dunno why though, since it means you have to stay inside all day.”

“It’s nothing.” He brushes stray paint off on his jeans; they’re old anyway. “Don’t worry too much about it.”

He notices the way Inukashi looks around the room, eyes the piles upon piles of canvases pressed back to back against each other, covered in nothing but dark gray clouds and lightning, a white balcony that shines like a beacon and a splatter of red that must be blood. They eye one on top for a moment longer; there is the image of a boy in a storm, dark hair sticking to his back from the rain and clutching his arm where a wound pours blood like saltwater.

On the canvas in front of him is the outline of what he plans to make an open window.

 

\--

 

The city is rebuilt. Little Shionn is nearing four, and Inukashi has grown to past Shion’s shoulder now—a feat he hadn’t considered possible a year ago. They must be nearing adulthood, cheeks losing baby fat and slimming down, voice filling out and words sharper. They learned how to read so that they could teach Little Shionn.

It’s the middle of summer, August approaching, and Shion gets that wave of nostalgia and longing he always gets around this time. It’s been nearly four years, but he still feels the same. His desire hasn’t dimmed, but he gets up and he grounds himself and he’s not pressed anything to his temple with the intent to hurt in a long time.

His room is filled with canvases, all painted over more than once to save money. He’s not had much time for his outlet lately, busy with makeshift jobs around the city, but when he collapses on his bed after he gets home, he remembers to write a note to himself to get more paint in the morning right before passing out.

Sleep isn’t rare, but pleasant sleep is. Most dreams are okay, but he’s not dreamt anything good in what feels like a very long time. The imprint of a gun in the crevices of his palms burns when he wakes some mornings, but he guesses he can’t complain if he’s not had any nightmares either.

The scar that wraps around him is the same as ever, but he swears it spreads as time goes on. Has it always pressed so far up on his cheek? Has it always been that low down on his wrist? It’s been so long, he can’t remember. He doesn’t know if he cares enough to, anyway. He shrugs, turns from the mirror, and has another cold bowl of soup for breakfast.

His bed still feels empty, but he’s in the habit of taking up all of the space now. Some of his paintings involve snakes, and rats, and dogs, and a gun. Some of his dreams involve these, too. Inukashi still checks up on him every now and then, but they’re so busy being a parent that he can hardly blame them for not noticing the lack of sleep he’s gotten, the spacy way he acts most days.

He remembers that voice, clear as day, and imagines it calling him an airhead, and it makes him smile just a little. How stupid to still think about something like that, how silly (the knowledge that it’s ridiculous doesn’t stop him from imagining it, though).

 

\--

 

Shion celebrates his twentieth birthday with his mom, Inukashi, and Little Shionn. They don’t do anything big, but Karan says that the cherry pie he receives was made with the help of Inukashi too. It’s a good birthday, he thinks.

It rains, too, and he sits in his bedroom, watches the canvases instead of the window, knowing that the image will match anyway. There’s lightning, and he counts the seconds. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and then thunder.

“Seven miles away,” he muses to the empty room. He takes his glasses off and sets them on his bedside table before lying down and trying to fall asleep.

It doesn’t work. There’s lightning again. One, two, three, four, five, and thunder. He shifts where he lays, rolls over on his side, spreads out across the mattress and rolls over again. The storm is three miles away when he finally gets out of bed.

He’s crossing the room and flinging the window open before he can figure out what he’s doing. The rain pounds, wind whipping around and tugging at his night clothes. He’s glad that his paintings are on the other side of the room, because everything near the window is getting soaked, and he can’t find it in himself to care.

Break it, destroy it. His desire is no longer unprecedented, but it is no longer as raw either. He leans out the window for lack of a balcony and screams.

When his throat is sore and he’s soaked to the bone, he leans his head against the open windowsill, still letting rainwater in, and lets himself cry. He’s been so used to being without emotion these past couple of years that he figures it’s okay to be overflowing with it for once, overflowing like the water at his feet.

Eventually, he slams the window shut, the merciless noise of the storm ceasing immediately, and goes to get towels to wipe up the mess he’s made. His wet hair sticks to his forehead, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand, even if it doesn’t help.

As he returns from the bathroom, towels in hand, he passes his foyer to see blood on his floor and dark hair down a back, arm clutched in strong hands, grip blunt and skin white.

The ghost in front of him gives a shaky grin.

In what feels like slow motion, Shion watches the way the other opens his mouth, no doubt in some sarcastic greeting, but he can’t get the words out before Shion is surging forward. The hug he gives must be bone crushing, and he holds on tight for what feels like a very long time. He says nothing, and neither does his ghost. Shion cries, like he had been in his room, like he had against the windowsill.

When he pulls away, the first thing out of his mouth is: “You _asshole_!”

Nezumi winces and nods, like he’s admitting that he deserves that, but Shion has to put his anger and worry and confusion and happiness off for the moment, because Nezumi is bleeding from a wound on his bicep.

The process is nostalgic, and Nezumi must realize this too, because he says nothing as Shion cleans and dresses the wound. It’s not deep enough to need stitches, he doesn’t think, and Nezumi sort of smiles at that, sardonic like he’d been hoping for stitches.

The storm still rages outside. Shion feels vulnerable in the silence, because they are quiet, and it shouldn’t be this uncomfortable, but the background noise of the rain is his only solace. Nezumi speaks finally, and once he opens his mouth it’s like neither can shut up. He doesn’t talk much about what he did in his four years of absence, but he asks a lot of questions—about Shion, the city, Inukashi, his mom. Shion speaks a lot, all in a daze because he’s not quite sure if this is real or not yet.

“You’re here,” he says into a beat of silence. “You’re back.”

“I’m here,” Nezumi confirms. “And you’re twenty.”

Shion blinks. “Oh. Yeah. It’s my birthday.”

“What, did His Majesty forget his own birthday?” He’s grinning as he says it, gentler than Shion remembers, but that voice is the same, and suddenly it’s too much. Hearing that nickname said so casually once again is too much, and he’s crying before he can stop himself.

They fall into sleep on that queen-sized bed, but it doesn’t feel quite as empty.

 

\--

 

(In the morning, Shion wakes to a chest pressed against his, legs tangled, and hands running through his hair, soothing and loving and all too much for so early. He doesn’t cry this time, but he feels himself tearing up and has to mask the emotion with a sleepy _good morning_.

Nezumi says good morning back, voice soft like he’s afraid of really waking the other up. His hands don’t stop their ministrations, but his eyes slide to something behind Shion.

“I see you’ve taken up some new hobbies,” he observes, and Shion cranes his head to see what he’s nodding towards. The canvases face them, the scenes of storms and snakes and rats and guns on full display.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s just…to help me vent.”

“A lot of storms.”

“Yeah.”

Nezumi grins, a little sarcastic but well-meaning all the same. “How sentimental.”

“You don’t have much room to talk,” Shion mumbles. “Showing up on the night of my birthday, in the middle of a storm, covered in blood.”

“I guess you’re right about that one,” he admits after a moment of silence. Shion closes his eyes, fully prepared to declare the conversation over and go back to sleep.

“I’ll paint you something sometime,” he offers quietly. “If you want me to.”

There’s pressure on his forehead: a kiss.

“I think I’d like that.”)


End file.
